Paper Fortunes
by Alice Day
Summary: Still reeling from Jim Moriarty, Molly Hooper winds up getting the *second* surprise of her life when Sherlock asks her out on a date.  Well, when he says "date"...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** How much do I love the fact that Gatiss and Moffat gave Sherlock his very own fangirl? But sometimes fangirls need a bit of attention, too.

* * *

Paper Fortunes

By Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Over the remains of her lemon chicken and steamed rice, Molly Hooper cracked open her fortune cookie and pulled out the oil-spotted slip of paper from its pastry shell. Absently, she munched on the crisp biscuit as she read the gem of wisdom provided by the Golden Lotus Fortune Cookie Factory.

_You will find yourself dancing in an unexpected place with a handsome man._

Ha, she thought, cramming the other half of the cookie in her mouth. _Like that's ever going to happen._

It wasn't going to happen because firstly, she didn't dance. Well, she _could_ - Mum insisted on those ballroom lessons the summer after her A-levels, and she'd managed to get through the entire course without breaking anyone's toes. But nobody ever took her out dancing, probably because of the faint smell of formaldehyde and rot that clung to her no matter how hard she scrubbed or how many bottles of lemon juice she dumped over her head in the shower. Something about the smell of death did seem to put off the fellas.

Secondly, she never went anywhere unexpectedly. Her life was set in a pattern (or a rut, if she had to be ruthlessly truthful) - she got up, went to work, took a tae bo class on Wednesdays, went to the shops on Thursdays, indulged in an occasional trip to the pub with some of the other hospital staff on Fridays, and spent the other nights with Toby and the contents of her DVR.

Thirdly, the handsome man. She washed down the cookie with a sip of green tea, absently noting that it was almost too cool to drink now. She'd had hopes for Jim from IT, until he turned out to be a psychopathic criminal who liked to strap people into Semtex vests and blow them up. He'd claimed to have a really bad sense of smell due to his allergies, and yet she remembered the way his nose had wrinkled the first and only time he'd leaned in to kiss her. _That should have tipped me off right there._

And now he was gone God knows where, so there was only one handsome man in her life, and she didn't think he was ever going to dance with her unless she had a really _interesting_ body part tied around her neck. Not to mention there was his flatmate, the ex-Army doctor with the sandy hair and the pointy nose. In her heart of hearts, she suspected that Sherlock Holmes didn't particularly know which side of the fence he landed on, but didn't care as long as that side included John Watson.

_So, 0 for 3. Thank you ever so much, Golden Lotus Fortune Cookie Factory._ Sighing, she screwed the fortune into a tiny ball and tossed it into the remains of her lemon chicken, then grabbed her purse. Time to get back to Barts and the rest of her boring, mundane, thoroughly uninteresting life.

###

_Thwack._

Molly's shoulders twitched a bit every time the broom handle came down on the corpse. She couldn't help it.

_Thwack. Thwack._

Apparently the size and shape of the welts could crack an art forgery case. At least that's what Sherlock said when he requisitioned a body.

_Thwack._

He didn't have authorization, as usual. And as usual, he'd said something observant and casually flattering (this afternoon, it was how the color of her blouse complimented her eyes), and she'd blushed on cue and pulled the body closest to his guidelines out from the cooling drawer, transferring it to a steel gurney for his use.

"Excellent," he murmured, before pulling a sawed-off length of broom handle from God knows where and whaling away at the corpse like he was beating a carpet. Molly smiled weakly and twitched all the way back to her lab.

Pathetic.

She was preparing a set of liver tissue slides when Sherlock burst into the lab, followed as usual by John. "I don't see why you can't come with me," he flung over his shoulder at his flatmate.

"Sherlock, it's a black tie affair," John said reasonably. "It's bad enough that people think we're - you know."

"So people talk. Why does that bother you so much?" Sherlock glanced at Molly. "I'm done," he said with poor grace.

"Thank you," John prodded. Looking pained, Sherlock grunted something that sounded like agreement.

"You're welcome," Molly said, wondering what it must be like to have Sherlock Holmes _want_ you to go somewhere with him. She took a deep breath, trying to sound neutral yet friendly. "Er, what affair are you two going to?"

"We're not," John said firmly. "He is."

"_We_ are," Sherlock said, just as firm. "The Great Ormond Street Hospital is holding a fundraising ball at the Tate this weekend, and I need to attend it as part of this case."

John leaned against a lab table, giving his flatmate a long-suffering look. "It's called going stag, Sherlock."

"It's called sticking out like a sore thumb, John."

The ex-Army doctor just rolled his eyes. "And swanning around with me is going to help you fade into the woodwork how?" he asked, sounding somewhere between irritated and amused. "What you need is a date, ideally one with a uterus. Talk to Mycroft - I'm sure he'd be happy to send his PA with you."

Sherlock gave him a filthy look. "I'd rather take Donovan, thank you."

Molly stood still, not daring to breathe. _Sherlock. Needed. A date._ "Um-"

"So take Donovan," John said, trying not to smirk and failing horribly. "If nothing else, it'll have Anderson frothing at the mouth for a week."

"Er-"

"I suspect it would take a direct order from Lestrade to get the good sergeant to appear anywhere in public with me," Sherlock said with a sniff. "Plus I don't particularly enjoy the thought of her trailing around after me all night muttering 'Freak' under her breath. And in any case, I can't full stop - previous history."

"I can go."

John's jaw dropped a fraction in shock, then he crowed, "Oh, God - you _dated_ her, didn't you? I knew there had to be a reason why she's always so pissed off at you!"

Sherlock jammed his hands in his coat pockets, looking mulish. "I hardly call one drink at a pub a date," he growled. "And it's not my fault that she got the wrong idea - Lestrade wanted me to develop 'better communications' with his staff. How she thought that was an invitation to try and lick my tonsils, I'll never know-"

_"I can go!"_ Molly shouted, then cringed.

"Hmm." Sherlock turned, giving her a vague look. "What?"

"I can go," she croaked, then cleared her throat. "With you, to the ball. As your date. If you like. Um."

The detective's nostrils flared. Before he could say anything, however, John leapt in with, "That's a great idea!" He ignored Sherlock's imperious glare, forging on. "I mean, Molly knows your work methods, and she could be - a separate set of eyes and ears on the floor. Or something."

The doctor gave her a huge, slightly desperate smile that screamed _Oh God I really don't want to go_. She suspected her answering smile was just as desperate and screamed exactly the opposite.

"Y-yes. I can be your eyes and ears," she echoed. _Oh, please, please, just this once, give me a chance._

"I have a perfectly functional set of eyes and ears already, thank you," Sherlock said huffily. To her surprise, however, he walked right up to her, completely oblivious of personal space, and studied her with an intensity that was both unnerving and insanely sexy. "Then again, I suppose you do have a uterus," he said, flicking John a dark look. "Do you have something appropriate to wear?"

_OhmyGodohmyGod he's asking me ohmyGod._ "Of course," she trilled, mentally riffling through her wardrobe of work clothes, jumpers, t-shirts with cute sayings, and the mauve dress with the frills that only came out for dates. "I have just the thing, haha."

His expression clearly said he didn't believe her. "Huh. Well, needs must, I suppose. I'll text you the details. Come on, John - we need to see a man about a paper press."

He swept out of the lab, long coat swirling in his wake like a cape. John gave her a grateful thumbs up before following.

Molly just stood there, stunned. _I'm going on a date. With Sherlock Holmes._

Really, nobody in their right mind could blame her for twirling around and squeeing just the tiniest bit.

###

The thought kept drifting through her mind, making her smile giddily all afternoon. Slicing up a chunk of brain for a histology slide (_I'm going on a date with Sherlock_), transferring a mangled accident victim from a paramedic gurney and sliding her into a cooling drawer (_we're going to a ball_), mopping up a pool of body fluids (_I'll get to dance with him_). It was all wonderful. After work, Molly drifted to her tae bo class in a candy-colored daze. She wanted to sing at the top of her lungs, jump through puddles, do all the wonderful movie clichés that the Girl got to experience when she finally snagged a date with the Boy. _I'll never doubt a fortune cookie again_, she thought as she went into the changing room and donned ratty grey sweatpants and a faded pink t-shirt, then went to her usual punching bag at the back of the classroom._ This weekend, I'll be dancing in an unexpected place with a handsome man. _

She caught a reflection of herself in the changing room mirror, and ice-cold reality blew the candy-colored clouds straight to hell. _I'm going to a ball, a black tie affair, with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who always looks like he just stepped out of GQ. And the nicest thing I have is a frilly mauve dress from Marks and Sparks._

_Oh, bollocks._

She had no idea what to wear to a ball - why in God's name did she trill, "I have just the thing"? And judging from Sherlock's usual couture, there was no way she could afford something in his price range - the man wore Dolce shirts, for God's sake, and that coat had to cost well over a thousand quid. She was going to look like an utter and complete idiot.

"Good Lord, Mols, what's wrong?"

Startled, Molly realized she wasn't alone. "Oh, hullo, Shanda," she breathed, trying to smile. "It's, er, nothing. Really."

"Rubbish, darling," the woman at the next punching bag announced. "It's that dishy detective, isn't it? What happened - did he get married? Go gay? Get married to his gay lover?"

Molly fidgeted. Dr. Shanda MacMahon was everything she wasn't - tall, spectacularly beautiful, with skin the color of bitter chocolate and huge doe eyes that stopped men dead in their tracks. She'd worked as a model for a couple of years before punching a photographer ("Stupid arse told me I was too fat for his shoot - I was 5'10" and eight bloody stone, darling," she said once when they'd gone out for drinks. "So I broke his nose, went out and found a chip shop, and haven't looked back"). Now, she was finishing her psych residency at Barts with an eye towards specializing in eating disorders, and was the closest thing Molly had to a BFF.

But she wouldn't understand - she had men dripping off her everywhere she went. And this was Molly's one chance to really show Sherlock Holmes what he was missing. "Come on, tell the doctor what's wrong," Shanda continued persuasively.

Molly weakly punched the tae bo bag. "He asked me to go to a fundraising ball with him."

One elegant eyebrow went up. "And that's what's got you looking like your family died? I thought you'd be dancing through the streets."

"I would, if I had anything decent to wear," Molly almost wailed, hitting the bag again. "I don't even know what you wear to a ball. And he's posh and wears the best clothes, and all I have is this stupid dress with ruffles, and I'm going to look like a prat, I just know it."

Shanda blinked at that, then gave her a very patient smile. "Darling, you do realize you're talking to an ex-model, yes?"

"Well, yes-" Molly's eyes went wide. "Oh, God. Shanda, would you help me pick out a dress? Please, I'll buy you dinner, I'll buy you a bottle, anything you want, just help!"

"Of course I'll help - anything to get you the dishy detective," the doctor said with a beaming smile. "Meet me in the lobby tomorrow night after work - I have an idea."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** You know Mycroft would do this. Deep inside that bespoke three-piece suit from Jerymn Street lurks the heart of a fairy godfather.

* * *

Paper Fortunes

By Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Molly swallowed hard, staring at the swathes of fabric casually hung on the changing room's hook. Up until now, her forays into Harrods had been restricted to occasional treats from the food hall. She'd never had the nerve to come up to the Women's Wear department, fully aware that the offerings there were completely and utterly out of her price range.

But Shanda had explained what was, in hindsight, a logical rationale - Molly should try on the high-end dresses first, find something that suited her, and then they'd start looking for a more inexpensive knock-off. "Designer dresses are always being copied by the High Street stores - we may as well start with the originals, then find something similar that won't require you to sell a kidney," the doctor explained, giving her a panther-like grin. "Besides, I always did like playing dolly dress-up."

And thus, Harrods. So far, Molly had tried on a McQ sheer shoulder dress, a Herve Leger contrast cutout bandage dress and something that was red silk and felt like water gliding over her skin. None of them met Shanda's criteria, and Molly was wondering if she should suggest they just go to Oxford Street and start looking in House of Frasier or Debenham's, when a knock came at the changing room door.

She cracked it open, and just managed to catch the dress thrust through the gap. "Try this on, Mols," Shanda ordered. "It's The Dress, I know it."

Nervous, Molly did as she was told, avoiding the mirror until she had the zipper up and fabric smoothed into place. Then she turned and looked at her reflection. And blinked, and looked again.

Shanda was right. It was The Dress. Wine-colored silk zibeline lent a wonderful touch of colour to her skin, and the pleated one-shoulder neckline, asymmetrical draping at the left hip and mermaid skirt was insanely elegant. When she stepped out of the changing room, Shanda beamed like the world's most fashionable fairy godmother. "Oh, yes," she purred. "Mols, that dress is you."

Molly took a deep breath. She didn't want to go shopping for a knockoff. She wanted this dress, the one that would undoubtedly be equal to whatever Sherlock wore to the ball, designer label for designer label. With fingers that were only slightly shaking, she turned over the price tag. She had about 500 quid saved up for a new flatscreen DVD and Blu-Ray player, but she could make do with her old set for another year-

She felt her eyes bulge as they registered the numbers. "Twelve hundred pounds?" she squeaked.

Shanda took the tag, tutting. "You're paying for the designer's vision, darling – actual material and construction costs are probably around two hundred pounds, less if it was made in Taiwan," she said briskly. "Don't worry - we can find something similar at Debenham's, I'm sure."

"Oh. Yes, of course." With a smile that felt tight and fake, Molly went back into the changing room, trying to ignore the sensation that she was peeling off her own skin as she took off The Dress.

###

As it turned out, Debenham's didn't have anything that came even remotely close to The Dress, although Shanda did find a rather nice little black number that didn't make her look entirely gormless. At £250, however, it wasn't what Molly thought of as an impulse purchase, either. She decided to sleep on the decision and headed back to her flat, tortured by memories of sleek wine silk and the perfect flaring skirt.

But the black dress isn't that bad, she tried to tell herself. _And it's a huge improvement on that ruffled frock._

_But it's not The Dress._

_No, it's not The Dress, but you can't afford The Dress unless you sell a kidney, so stop being an idiot and settle for the Debenham's frock._

It wasn't until she got into her building and turned the corner on the stairs that she realized someone was waiting outside her flat. Well, two someones, actually - a tall man in a three-piece suit, holding an umbrella like it was an extension of his arm, and a sleek, beautiful brunette in a slim-fitted blazer and dark skirt. Even perusing a Blackberry, she made Molly feel like a frumpy cat lady.

_The Avengers_, Molly thought irrationally. _They look like John Steed and Emma Peel._

"Ah, Miss Hooper," the man said as she approached, taking her hand. "My name is Mycroft Holmes - I was given to understand that you'll be attending the Great Ormond Street Hospital Ball with my brother Sherlock this weekend?"

Blinking rapidly, Molly managed a squeak that probably sounded like a "Yes" to dogs and other creatures with the ability to hear ultrahigh frequencies. Mycroft seemed to be one of them, because he beamed at her.

"Excellent - it always does me good to know that Sherlock is expanding his social horizons," he purred. "Now, I happen to know that this particular outing is in service of a small job I persuaded my brother to take on for me, so I feel it only appropriate to make sure that neither of you is out of pocket regarding clothing expenses. Have you already selected a gown for the ball?"

Molly twitched a bit, thinking of The Dress. The perfect, gorgeous, completely out of her price range dress. "Er, no," she muttered. "I did some shopping tonight, but—"

"Ah, then I'm just in time. Sherlock was kind enough," he smirked a bit at this, "to allow me to scout formalwear possibilities for him. While I was doing so, I picked up something that I thought would suit you.

Pausing her text work, the woman handed him a box, and Molly tried not to gawp as her brain merrily went into vapor lock. _He doesn't know me, he doesn't know anything about me, he's Sherlock's brother, what did Sherlock tell him about me, does Sherlock talk to people about me-_

After a moment, she registered the box in his outstretched hands. The dark green box with the Harrods label. Something warm flared inside her, a wonderful, impossible tingle of hope. Don't be stupid, she thought, clinging to some last shred of practicality. it's not The Dress, it can't be.

Her own hands shaking slightly, she took the box. And opened it, just enough to see wine silk inside.

It was The Dress.

"Oh," she whispered, stunned. "...how?"

Mycroft gave her an indulgent smile. "I have my little ways," he said. "And after all, it is a ball, and Cinderella does deserve a proper dress - even Anthea agreed."

"I did," his companion agreed, looking up from her Blackberry and giving Molly an approving look. "You'll look smashing in it."

Molly realized she was nodding, and made herself stop. "But the cost," she said, wondering if she'd be able to hand it back. "It's horrendous."

Still smiling, Mycroft glanced at his companion, who shook her head. "It comes under the national security budget, and let me assure you, it's a great deal less expensive than some of Sherlock's previous requisitions," she said.

"Well, then - that's settled." Mycroft pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and glancing at it. "Oh, dear. I'm afraid we must run - I do hope you enjoy the dress. Oh, and Miss Hooper?"

She looked up from The Dress, starry-eyed.

"Good luck."

###

The rest of the week seemed to drag by. The Dress hung on Molly's closet door, the first thing she saw in the morning and the last thing she saw at night. And when she slept, she dreamed about being whirled around on a huge dance floor, in the arms of a dark, handsome man with silver eyes that burned only for her.

Sherlock's texted instructions weren't quite that romantic, of course:

_Be ready at 6:30 PM sharp._  
_No ridiculous heels. You may have to run._  
_SH_

She was ready by 5:30 PM. A long, long hot shower with three full bottles of lemon juice, makeup fresh and perfect thanks to a quick mini-seminar with Shanda that morning, hair in a marvelous updo, a lovely matching gold earring and necklace set (also courtesy of Shanda), and yes, low-heeled shoes as requested. All she had to do now was wait.

So she waited. And waited. And waited some more. By 7:30 PM she was on the verge of calling Barts to find out if Sherlock had gotten stuck into an experiment and forgotten the time, when the doorbell rang. "Finally!" she muttered, running to the door and flinging it open.

An older man in a black trench coat stood there, hands jammed in his pockets, looking...embarrassed. "Uh, hi," he said in a gravelly voice, giving her a once-over that paused briefly but appreciatively at her chest. "Molly, right?"

She couldn't help peering behind him. No tall, dark-haired detective there. "Oh. Er, yes. Can I help you?"

He pulled something out of his pocket - a warrant card. "DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard," he said. "I know this is all last-minute, but there's been a change of plan. Sherlock's decided to work the ball undercover as one of the catering staff."

Molly went very still, heat flooding her face. _I knew it, _a tiny, bleak voice said. _I knew he'd never actually go through with it. Stupid, stupid, stupid... _

"Oh." She bit her lip, hating the choked sound in her voice. "Well...thank you for letting me…right…" She went to close the door before she burst into tears and completed the evening's humiliation.

"Wait." Lestrade reached out, hand flat against the door. "Look, he sent me because, um, you're still going to the ball. Apparently he needs 'eyes and ears in the crowd.'"

She looked up into sympathetic brown eyes, and saw the pity there. Pity for poor, stupid, lonely Molly, who was 31 and lived alone with her cat and smelled funny and was foolish enough to keep falling for men who didn't care about her at all.

Suddenly, hurt alchemized into fury. "I'm going to look a bit odd all by myself, don't you think?" she snapped, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Then again, she figured she was owed some bitterness by now. "Or didn't that occur to Sherlock?"

If possible, the uncomfortable look on Lestrade's face got even worse. "Er, yeah, it did. Which is why—"

He unbuttoned the trench coat, holding it open like a flasher. What it revealed, however, was a rather nice tuxedo. "—I'm going with you. As your date. If you still want to go, that is."

Molly glared at him, jaws clenched together so hard she could hear the high-pitched hum from the rising blood pressure in her ears. What _she_ wanted? What she wanted was to find Mr. Sherlock Holmes and kick him right in the nadgers, then crawl into a pint of Häagen-Dazs and pull the lid over her.

She pressed her lips together hard, struggling for control. But. But. She was in the most beautiful dress she'd ever worn, and she'd never been to a ball before. And this Lestrade seemed decent enough for a copper, and there actually was some observation work to be done. What would Shanda do?

_What would Mrs. Peel do?_

There really wasn't any question. Both of them would give two fingers up to Sherlock Holmes, the world's biggest cock, and go to the ball anyway.

She nodded once, determined. "Let me get my wrap," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** Thanks go out to everyone who's been reading and reviewing - you folks are great!

* * *

Paper Fortunes

By Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

Lestrade explained the situation on the way to the Tate; the museum was currently hosting an exhibition of ancient Korean calligraphy previously on display at the Riksmuseem in Amsterdam. During that time someone tried to substitute a forgery for one of the pieces; museum guards and the Amsterdam police foiled the theft, but the South Korean government was afraid of another attempt.

After a great deal of persuasion from the British government, the South Koreans agreed to let the exhibition come to the Tate, with the condition that the museum would lay on extra security during the ball. As a further reassurance, Sherlock had been persuaded (Molly assumed his brother had something to do with that) to attend the ball undercover and catch the thieves if they tried to steal the artwork again.

And now Molly's hand was tucked into the DI's arm as they mingled with the crowd of people circulating through one of the Tate's galleries. She'd already spotted two footballers, an actress from Eastenders, a Spice Girl and a TV presenter known for mangling his W's. One of the footballers eyed her appreciatively and smiled. She smiled back automatically; Lestrade noticed the flirting attempt and glared at the athlete, fully into his role as her escort. _Or is he my boyfriend? Can't be my husband - he's wearing a ring, but I'm not. Maybe I'm his mistress? _She grinned a bit at that. _Oooh, Molly, you bad girl._

They paused in an alcove, arranging themselves so that they could keep an eye on the crowd while looking like an idly chatting couple. Now that she'd had some time to calm down, Molly understood (grudgingly, but she did understand) Sherlock's decision to masquerade as one of the catering waiters. It gave him greater access to the museum, and people tended not to notice a white-jacketed man walking around with canapés. _And it wasn't as if we were on a real date, after all._

Molly sighed. It was time to face facts - she wasn't ever going to go on a date with Sherlock, or have coffee with him, or snog him, or do...anything else with him. Ever. She was moderately useful to him, with her access to the Barts morgue and its endless supply of body parts, but that was the limit of their relationship. _We're - bugger, we're not even friends. John's his friend, Mycroft's his brother, Lestrade is - I don't know what Lestrade is. Me, I'm an acquaintance. Maybe a colleague on a good day. And that's it._

"Anything wrong?"

"Hmm?" She glanced at Lestrade, who was studying her. "Oh, sorry. Just had a bit of a reality check, I suppose," she admitted. "About Sherlock."

Lestrade chuckled. "Yeah, he tends to have that effect on people," he agreed. "Look, I know that you were looking forward to tonight. With him, I mean." He shrugged, one side of his mouth turning up. "I'm sorry you got stuck with me. But if it's of any help, I don't usually get the chance to squire a gorgeous woman around at a posh do. You're doing this old copper's battered ego a world of good."

"Oh."_ Gorgeous. He called me gorgeous. And I'm blushing again, drat it._ "Well, thank you for taking me," she murmured, then blinked in horror. "I mean, escorting me. Here. Um."

His eyes twinkled as he leaned closer. "It's all right - I knew what you meant," he confided.

_Blushing even worse now. Oh, crumpets._ "Well, good," she said, trying for a light tone. "And I hope your wife doesn't mind that you're doing this. Escorting me, I mean."

Lestrade's amused expression faded, and he glanced at the band of gold on his left hand. "Yeah, about that," he said. "I'm a widower. Five years this October."

"Oh," Molly breathed, wishing that she could self-combust on the spot. "God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's all right, you didn't know. I just-" He shrugged. "I haven't wanted to take the ring off, I guess. Hasn't felt right."

There was nothing she could say to that. Instead, she squeezed his arm. To her relief, he placed his hand over hers, squeezing back. "Come on," he rumbled. "Let's check out the place for art thieves before we start getting snotty texts from His Nibs."

###

An hour later, they'd made a circuit of the gallery and half of the surrounding hallways, and Lestrade's whispered commentary on the people around them had her choking on giggles half the time. Molly felt amazing. It wasn't the swoony, walking on clouds sensation she expected from a date with Sherlock - this was more...well..._powerful_, like she was a panther slinking through the jungle in search of prey.

And the man on her arm wasn't Sherlock, but in an odd sort of way he was even better - he made her laugh, and he had actual emotions, at least, and lovely silver hair and brown eyes that looked like warm chocolate and a kissable mouth and a rather gorgeous arse and oh dear God she wasn't saying any of this out loud, was she?

"Do I want to know why you're smiling?" Lestrade asked.

She flushed, wondering how the DI would react if she told him the truth. "Oh. I feel..." She shrugged, unwilling to let go of the sensation that sparkled inside her. "Don't laugh. But I feel a bit like Emma Peel."

"_The Avengers._ I loved that show," Lestrade agreed. "No, I understand - you're all dressed up and on a mission while Steed is out there somewhere casing the bad guys."

"Oh, no." At his raised eyebrow, she flushed a bit, but continued. "I mean...well, _you're_ Steed, obviously."

"Ah." A slow, pleased smile crept across the DI's face, and he glanced over her shoulder. "In that case, Mrs. Peel, let's have a drink."

He gestured, and a shape in white drifted into Molly's peripheral vision. "Would madam care for some champagne?" a familiar baritone asked.

She looked up, into Sherlock's impassive face. Even in a poly-blend white jacket and plain black necktie, his hair slicked down with what had to be industrial-strength product and hands holding a tray full of champagne flutes, he still made her mouth go dry. "Oh. Um-"

"Of course madam wants some champagne," Lestrade said, sounding bored. "Hurry it up, man."

Obediently, Sherlock offered her a crystal flute. She took it and sipped, unsure of what was more delicious - the champagne, or the slightly miffed look on the detective's face. _Oh,_ _I could get used to this._

Her satisfaction vaporised as Lestrade leaned closer, the bored expression turning serious. "Three men," he muttered. "Two blond husky types, one brunet with a large sty on his right eyelid, all wearing off-the-rack tuxedos, always staying near the exits. I'm guessing they're surveillance."

Sherlock's eyes flickered dismissively. "Ukrainian mercenaries - already spotted them. Museum security is moving their men into position now."

"What about the exhibit?"

"Have to wait for the main team to make a move." Sherlock straightened up, giving them both a polite nod before heading off with his tray.

Molly stared at Lestrade in shock. They'd just spent an hour walking around the place, and he hadn't mentioned a thing about spotting the thieves to her. Her knuckles whitened as her hand tensed around the champagne flute - she wasn't sure if she wanted to throw it at Sherlock, or crack it over Lestrade's head. _Oh, no, don't tell Molly anything - she's just a silly twit, after all._

The DI glanced at her, misreading her expression. "Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise," he said quietly, touching her hand.

She ignored the warmth of his fingers, distracted by the buzzing in her ears again. _I had Jim Moriarty over to my apartment, you prat - do you seriously think I'm scared by a bunch of art thieves?_ "I'm not worried," she said through her teeth. "I'm-"_angry/hurt/upset/pissed off/stop treating me like a flipping - a sodding - a FUCKING child_

"-going to the toilet," she muttered, shoving her flute into Lestrade's hand and stomping off towards one of the exits.

###

Molly braced her hands on the pedestal sink in the ladies, taking deep breaths through her nose as she glared at her reflection. Furious spots of color stood out on her cheekbones, and her eyes seemed to glitter in the overhead fluorescents. _Huh - I look good when I'm angry. Maybe I should get angry more often. God knows they give me enough reason._

A stall door behind her opened, and a tall, aristocratic blonde in a black bandage dress and velvet shawl headed to the next sink to wash her hands. She glanced at Molly, raising an eyebrow. "Bad night?" she asked in a faint Scots brogue.

Molly snorted. "That's one way to put it," she said. "Men are idiots."

The blonde rolled her eyes as she dried her hands. "Aye, I know the feeling," she agreed. "So what did yours do?"

Molly gripped the edge of the sink harder, focusing on the cool porcelain under her fingers. "It's – well, it's two of them. And they're both treating me like I'm some sort of stupid wind-up doll," she said. "I mean, I'm a _pathologist_, for God's sake. I'd like to see either of them slice up dead bodies day in and day out and see how well they handle it." She grimaced. "Well, it probably wouldn't bother Sherlock all that much, but still."

The blonde glanced at her in the mirror, shaking her head. "Oh, you think that's bad - try bossing a bunch of them around," she commiserated, leaning closer to her reflection to check her makeup. "The things they say when they think I can't hear - either I'm a bollock-busting bitch, or they're trying to get in my pants. Christ, all I want is for them to do what they're told - is that so hard?"

"No!" Molly agreed, fired up with the unexpected female solidarity. "If you're their boss, they should do what you say."

"Aye," the blonde said with a sigh. "I mean, all they have to do is follow a simple set of orders. It's just not that hard. But since I have a uterus, obviously I don't know what I'm doing and they have to argue with me about every last thing. Or even worse, not tell me about things. _That_ drives me completely mad."

Molly turned to look at her new friend, nodding. "I know exactly what you mean. Why can't they believe that we're just as capable and competent as they are?"

"Exactly. I mean, if I did this-" The blonde opened her clutch, pulled out a semi-automatic pistol, and aimed it at Molly "-and you were a man, you'd try to do something stupidly heroic because you'd think you could overpower me, at which point I'd have to shoot you. Since you're a woman, however, I know you'll be smart and bide your time, in which case you'll be perfectly fine at the end of the evening."

Molly stared at the lethal barrel leveled at her heart. "You - you're one of the art thieves," she said, her throat dry.

"The head thief, actually." The blonde smiled. "Of course, I prefer to think of myself as a freelance contractor in art circulation, but people _will_ use archaic titles. And now, doctor, if you'll come with me..."

###

Sherlock gave the catering manager an appropriately sycophantic smile as he hoisted yet another tray of champagne glasses and headed back into the ball. So far, things were going to plan; security had isolated and removed the three mercenaries, as well as the backup set. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the distraction that would catch everyone's attention while the real thieves removed the artwork. He hoped it would be moderately original - someone coming all over in boils, or some wildly popular celebrity arriving unexpectedly.

He spotted Lestrade near the lavatories; the DI had an unusually dyspeptic expression, and kept checking both ends of the hallway. Sherlock glided over, tray ready. "May I offer sir a drink?"

"Hm? Yeah, why not." Lestrade grabbed one of the flutes, lifting it to his lips and holding it there without drinking. "Molly's missing," he muttered. "She said she was going to the loo, but that was fifteen minutes ago."

Sherlock kept a subservient expression on his face, as if Lestrade was just another guest rambling to the help. "It's not precisely my area," he murmured, "but I'm given to understand that women can spend quite a while in the lavatory. Primping, I suppose."

The DI scowled at that. "Yeah, except that I just asked a lady coming out - said I was worried my date might be sick. She said there was no one else in there."

Sherlock reviewed the schematic of the Tate he'd added to his hard drive that afternoon. There was one other women's lavatory available for tonight's event, but it was on the far side of the galleries. "Are you sure she went in this one?"

Lestrade gave him an inexplicably disgusted look. "I saw her go in, all right? Something's wrong."

The detective's subservient expression disappeared, replaced by a thoughtful look. _Molly disappearing - meant to be a distraction? They knew she was supposed to attend with me, then - how? Information on the Tate and its defenses supplied by - of course. Which means the thieves' distraction will be-_ "Ah," he said. "Oh, that's clever. Also rather stupid on their part, but five out of ten for initiative at least."

"Sherlock, what the hell are you babbling about?" Lestrade growled.

He plunked the tray down on a nearby display case, stripping out of his waiter's jacket. "Go talk to Security, see if they can find her on the CCTV before-"

There was an actinic flash and a loud boom, and screams erupted from the main gallery behind them.

"-that happens," Sherlock said.

###

Molly wiggled her wrists gently, testing the plastic zip ties. They bit into the soft flesh on the underside of her arm, and she winced.

Anyone watching the two of them come out of the Ladies would have thought they were old friends, she thought bitterly - arms linked, the blonde's head bent close to hers, chatting away with a smile. No one could see the gun hidden underneath the blonde's shawl as it was pressed into Molly's ribs. Still chatting brightly, her captor guided her away from the galleries, towards a door marked "Staff Only." She had a wild hope that Lestrade would come looking for her, or Sherlock would pass during one of his rounds.

But no. And now she was tied up in what looked like an administrator's office, with a glass wall overlooking a reception area. Four men wearing black jogging suits and balaclavas clustered around the blonde as she gave orders. From the sound of it, they were the art thieves Sherlock had expected. "And for Christ's sake, don't drop any bloody evidence this time," she snapped. "Go."

The men nodded and filed out. Once they were alone, the blonde smiled at Molly. "Like I said, they do like their backchat," she said, sitting down in the desk chair and rummaging through Molly's purse, glancing at her ID from Bart's. "Ah, I did wonder. So you're Moriarty's pet pathologist," she said conversationally. "I have to say, you're not nearly as brainless as he said you were."

Moriarty. Jim from IT, the sweet, shy man who watched Glee with her and petted Toby, who'd given her a lovely good night kiss the last time she saw him. James Moriarty, ruthless criminal and bomber, the man who'd casually murdered an old woman and others in her building because she said the wrong thing. One and the same, and never had she felt so foolish as when Sherlock explained her role in Moriarty's plans.

She swallowed once, fighting down the lump in her throat. "I'm not his pet pathologist," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'm not his anything. He's a lying bastard."

"True," the blonde allowed. "Extraordinarily useful bastard, though. He told us you'd be here tonight - suggested grabbing you as a way to throw a spanner in the works. Not that Sherlock Holmes gives a toss for you, apparently, but your absence should provide enough of a distraction to let us get our work done."

Molly's cheeks flamed at the evaluation. "He'll figure out who you are," she muttered.

"Oh, he's welcome to try," the blonde said, pulling an aluminum briefcase from under the desk and popping it open. Inside was what looked like a miniaturized radio base station. She pulled a headset from the case and slipped it on. "Now, you just sit there and be quiet, and let me keep tabs on my crew."

Molly bit her lip, trying to stay calm. She would get out of this. Probably. Maybe. There was no real reason to kill her, after all - if she just sat there and kept quiet, she'd be back in her flat with Toby, because she didn't want to die, she didn't-

_You're panicking_, a cool voice said in the back of her mind.

Well, of course I'm bloody well panicking, she thought back. I'm tied to a chair with an armed man in the room, and they've already shot two people, and with my luck I'm probably next. And why do you sound like Sherlock?

_I'm your subconscious - you can make me sound like anyone you want_, the cool voice said. _Take a deep breath._

Reluctantly, she obeyed.

_Another. Good. Now, without making it obvious, analyze the room. Where are the exits?_

There's the door.

_And the windows?_

There are none.

_Ah. So those clear floor to ceiling panes in the wall next to the door are just for decoration._

Oh. Yes, I suppose those are windows. But they're probably tempered glass - I'd need to throw something heavy to break them.

_Let's hope that isn't necessary. What about your chair?_

It was an armless rolling operator's chair. They hadn't tied her to it, just fastened her hands behind the chair back. If necessary, she could arch her arms wide and stand up, slipping free of the back with a wriggle or two.

_Which still leaves you with your arms bound behind your back, but it's something. Now, what did Shanda tell you to do in case things got tense tonight?_

Concentrate on my breathing and find my center.

_Good. Do that now, and keep an eye out for a chance to escape._ She could almost see the terse, v-shaped smile. _Now you see why it was a good idea to wear flats._

She bit down a hysterical giggle. Bastard. But he was right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** I cannot believe it took me a year to finish this bloody thing, but here it is - enjoy!

* * *

Paper Fortunes

By Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Sherlock and Lestrade shoved their way through the panicked people running for the exits. "We need to get upstairs to the exhibit," Sherlock yelled over the din.

"Easier said than done," Lestrade yelled back, grunting as a frantic celebrity elbowed him in the side on her way past. Clouds of acrid smoke rolled out of the main gallery; sniffing, he realized it was the same kind that had choked a swimming pool months ago.

He still remembered the worried phone call from Sarah Sawyer, which prompted him to check Sherlock's website. As soon as he realized what the lanky git was planning, he called the Yard and scrambled a CO19 firearms unit, lapsing into the gutter French learned from his Brittany cousins as soon as he finished the call. The SFOs showed up hot on the heels of what he later learned was a Special Forces team, just in time to find a shaken Sherlock and John climbing out of the water and the architect behind the bombing spree long gone. As it turned out, John had been loaded with what looked like Semtex but was actually an array of weighted smoke bombs; Sherlock muttered later on that he should have known Moriarty would never risk his own neck that close to one of his devices. "What about Molly?"

"What about her?"

Lestrade grabbed the detective by the arm, dragging him to a stop. "For once in your life, Sherlock, stop being a complete arse," he ordered. "If the thieves grabbed her, she's in danger."

"I know that," Sherlock said, shaking his arm out of Lestrade's grip. "I also know that Moriarty is working as a consultant on this heist, which means the thieves know about her crush on me, so her disappearance is a deliberate distraction. They have no reason to kill her, so she'll be fine - well, probably."

"Probably?"

That earned him an eyeroll. "Right now, we need to focus on the exhibit."

The DI fought down an urge to punch the other man. "Sod the exhibit," he said, stepping back. "I'm going after Molly."

"Oh, for God's sake - she survived Moriarty, she can survive a simple art heist," Sherlock snapped. "But if you're that concerned, by all means go find her. Judging by their previous work the thieves undoubtedly have a temporary command centre, most likely in one of the administrative offices on this floor - she's probably there."

With that he dashed through a doorway into a stairwell. Growling, Lestrade spun on his heel and jogged towards the glass doors marked "Administration."

###

"What?"

Molly startled when the blonde leapt up from her chair, one hand flying to the headset. "When? Damn it all! Can you still get to the target? Well, go, you idiot - and tell Foster I need him."

The thieves on the other end must have cut off the conversation, because the now furious blonde turned towards Molly. "It seems that I may have underestimated your Mister Holmes," she bit out. "I'm needed on the floor - you, my wee doctor, will stay here and stay quiet, understood?"

She slid a hand into her jacket pocket, touching the pistol outline there. Molly gulped and nodded, trying to look utterly cowed. If this mad bint would just leave, she could stand up, slip her arms free of the chair back, and run like hell-

She almost moaned when a dour-looking ginger jogged into the room. "You wanted me, aye?" he asked in a Midlands accent.

"Yes - keep an eye on her and monitor communications," the blonde ordered, handing over the headset. The ginger - Foster, Molly remembered - put it on, giving Molly a quick but thorough once-over before turning to the comms unit. "And if she tries to talk, gag her."

"Yes, ma'am," Foster agreed, his gaze drifting to Molly again. Something in his look made her feel as if she'd been lightly coated in slime.

The blonde smirked at Molly. "Sorry to leave you like this, doctor, but it just goes to show - if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." Touching one manicured finger to her forehead in a salute, she left.

Molly sagged back in her chair. She'd been so close-

_No! Do not start panicking now - that's utterly useless. Observe Foster, Molly. What do you see?_

Obediently, she tipped her head down, hoping the gesture would look docile while she studied Foster through her eyelashes. He appeared to be in his early thirties, slightly overweight but with solid muscle underneath the flab. She noticed he handled the comms unit gingerly, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

Low level flunky, she thought. Hired more for muscle than brains?

_Most likely. Unimportant enough that he could be pulled off the main heist and given what is essentially a babysitting job._

Oi!

_Oh, don't be ridiculous - he'd be babysitting anyone they captured. More importantly, it gives you a better chance of escape. Especially as - yes, I was wondering when he'd show up. _She could have sworn the voice in her head sounded amused.

At the far left edge of the window into the hallway, she saw a flash of something. And then again, as a face carefully edged into view. Grey hair, brown eyes, grim expression.

She blinked once, hard. Oh, look, my date's here, she thought, forcing down another stream of hysterical giggles.

_For God's sake, don't react. You'll give him away._

She jerked her head down, staring at her knees with Lestrade in her upper peripheral vision. He glared at Foster, then pointed at himself, and down the hallway.

He needed to get past the window. Which meant-

Oh.

_Yes, a distraction. _For the first time since all this started, the voice sounded...approving?_ You can do this, Molly. If it helps, just act as you do around me. You know - insipid._

Bastard. She gritted her teeth, then took a deep breath. Raising her head, she put on what she hoped was her most pathetic, vulnerable expression. "Please," she murmured, forcing a weak warble into her voice. "Please, just let me go, I won't tell the police anything, I promise."

Distracted, Foster looked at her. "Shut up, you," he ordered.

"Please, I don't want to die. I'll do anything, just let me go." She tacked a little sob onto the end of the sentence, letting her breasts quiver with it.

As she'd hoped, Foster tracked the movement, his attention focused on her cleavage. He licked his lips, then glanced back at the comms unit. And then back at her.

_Torn between business and pleasure, I see. The hook's almost set. Gentle, now._

"Please, I don't want to die," she repeated faintly. "Please. I'll do anything."

Foster's expression changed, shifting from dour to lustful.

_And you have him. Now reel him in._

The thief stood stood up, swaggering over to her. "Boss said I could gag you," he muttered, resting a hand on his belt buckle. "Didn't say with what, now, did she?"

His meaning sank in, and Molly wanted to retch at the thought. The tears glittering in her eyes were real as she nodded, trying not to imagine the taste, the feel of what would be in her mouth if this didn't work-

_But it will work. Get him in range, and you'll know what to do._

You can do this, she chanted to herself. Damn it, you can. Show them all, Mols - you can do it.

Grinning, Foster fumbled with the belt buckle, undoing it with a soft click. His fly zip was next, revealing y-fronts in the gap and a soft but growing bulge underneath the white cotton. "You want it, don't you?" he breathed, sliding a restraining hand around the back of her neck.

_Lean back against it._

"Yeah," Molly whispered back, rocking her head towards the hand as she stared at her target.

He huffed out a chuckle. "Give it a nice kiss, then."

_Now._

She snapped her head forward as hard as she could, driving her forehead into Foster's cock and balls. The thief screamed shrilly, fingers yanking at Molly's hair as he staggered back. She used the momentum to push backwards, gripping the chair back with her hands as she curled her body up, tucking her bent legs against her chest for a second before driving them directly into the thief's groin.

This time Foster keened, a thin sound, before leaning forward and vomiting on her legs. She recoiled, kicking against the floor until she was against the office wall. He sank to his knees in the space she'd just vacated, both hands clasped protectively around his injured groin, before tumbling over to the side.

Revealing a grim Lestrade, fire extinguisher raised for a blow. "Bloody hell," he said, astounded.

Molly couldn't help the manic laugh bubbling up in her throat. "Hello, darling," she gurgled. "Having a good time?"

"Oh, it's a corker," the DI quipped back at her, lowering the extinguisher. After pulling out his cuffs and securing Foster, he went to her side, fumbling a pocketknife out of his coat and cutting through the plastic ties binding her to the chair. "You all right?"

"Oh, lovely," she said, her tone still bubbly and over-bright as she rubbed her reddened wrists. "Got kidnapped at gunpoint in the loo because my ex thought I'd be a good distraction, then this blonde Scots bint tied me up, and then this arse wanted me to polish his knob for him. All part of an evening with Sherlock Holmes, eh?"

And then there didn't quite seem to be enough air in the room. She started hiccupping, and the hiccups turned into tears, and somehow Lestrade had his arms around her and she was crying into his shoulder and feeling like a complete and utter prat. "I'm sorry," she gasped, struggling to stop the tears. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm doing this. I mean, I'm safe now, right?"

"Emotional release," Lestrade murmured, rubbing her back in slow, wide circles. "Perfectly normal - all that adrenaline has to go somewhere. Christ, if you weren't sobbing on me, I'd wonder what was wrong."

Molly laughed shakily at that, but took him at his word. After what felt like a lifetime, she finally pulled away, swiping at the wetness on her cheeks. "Thank you."

His expression changed, turning remorseful. "You shouldn't be thanking me," he said. "This is my fault - I shouldn't have let you wander off alone like that."

"You didn't - oh, _bollocks_, Greg."

He gave her a startled look. "Don't you see, I was angry," she explained, rubbing her forehead. "You were both treating me like a child, not telling me anything, just letting me wander around like some brainless twit. When you finally told me you'd seen some of their agents, I had to get away before I started shouting at you, so I walked off." She huffed, plucking at the stained silk of her dress. "And walked right into their trap. Stupid Molly."

A warm, calloused hand covered hers. "You're not stupid, Doctor Hooper," Lestrade said, his voice calm but intent. "As a matter of fact, you're bloody smart, not to mention brave as all hell. I've known veteran DCIs who couldn't have done what you did tonight, all right?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded. "That _was_ a bit good, wasn't it?"

He grinned at her. "Yeah, just a bit. Tell you this much - if things ever go pear-shaped, I want you and John Watson on my side."

"What about Sherlock?"

"He can get his own bloody side."

Behind them, Foster whimpered in pain. "Now, how about we find ourselves some nice sturdy constables and turn this nonce over to them, Mrs. Peel?" he added.

Molly grinned back. "Sounds wonderful to me, Steed."

###

Of course, it wasn't as simple as that. By the time they'd exited the administration section, Sherlock had already rounded up the rest of the art thieves, assisted by the Tate's security staff and the undercover Met officers. Molly was taken to one side to make a statement, identifying the blond Scotswoman who'd taken her from the loo (one Margot Whitehead, wanted in at least five different countries for theft, and wasn't this going to be a feather in Sherlock's cap), and giving the police sergeant an account of what had happened with Foster. By the time she was finished, it was almost 2:00 AM and time to start her shift at Barts.

Upon hearing that, Lestrade tried to talk her into calling in sick. When she refused, he insisted on driving her to the hospital, then walking her down to the morgue.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said as they walked down the basement hallway. "I'll be fine by myself."

"I know _you_ will," the DI replied easily. "I'm starting to think I'm the one who needs protection. Hands tied behind your back, and you still took out that tosser."

Molly glanced down at her dress. She'd washed the worst of Foster's vomit off in the Tate's toilet, but the wine silk was still ruined. "Oh, dear," she sighed. "This was horribly expensive."

"Shame - it was beautiful," Lestrade admitted. "Not quite as beautiful as what's in it, of course, but still."

She looked up at that, surprised. She'd gotten used to Sherlock's brusque dismissiveness (or his deliberate, ingenuous flirting when he wanted something), or John's generic friendliness that was as easily delivered to a tree as to her. And on some level, Jim's shy, sly, utterly false adoration never really convinced her.

But this felt genuine. And for once she didn't feel the need to giggle, or deflect a compliment, or do anything silly. She could just accept it.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"You're welcome." He glanced around as they entered the morgue. "Look, do you have some sort of sound system around here?"

"Um, yes, in the lab - why?"

"Well, we never got the chance to dance, it being a ball and all." His grin was slightly crooked, and wholly disarming. "Might as well get some use of this monkey suit before taking it back, yeah?"

Upon further reflection, she decided this made perfect sense. They went over to the lab; while he moved stools and instrument tables out of the way, she found her portable stereo and her iPod, and cued up k.d. lang's "Love Affair" with slightly shaking fingers.

And that was how Molly Hooper found herself dancing in an unexpected place with a handsome man. It wasn't the handsome man she'd fantasized about, but reality turned out to be much better than fantasy, particularly when Lestrade leaned down and – ooh, yes, please - brushed his lips across hers. _All right, so maybe there's something to be said for fortune cookies._

What the fortune cookie forgot to mention was the lab door banging open and Sherlock striding through, John on his heels. Startled, Molly pulled back, halted by the DI's arms still around her.

"Oh, good, you're here," Sherlock said, glancing at Molly and Lestrade for a millisecond and obviously dismissing the fact that they were in each other's arms and kissing as unimportant. "I need a female ankle, between fifty and sixty years of age, with moderate osteoporosis." When she didn't snap to, he made an impatient noise. "Sometime in this millennium, please."

Molly looked at Sherlock, then at Lestrade, who raised one eyebrow. Ball's in your court, it seemed to say.

"Right," she said. Gently unwinding the DI's arms from her waist, she walked over to Sherlock and punched him in the mouth.

The detective lurched back in shock, smacking into a lab table with an audible thud. "You _hit_ me!" he exclaimed, clutching his jaw more from incredulity than pain.

"You noticed," she said sweetly, ignoring the throbbing in her knuckles. "Next time, don't come into my lab demanding body parts without authorization."

From the corner of her eye, she saw John had a hand over his mouth, trying to hide a grin. Satisfied, she spun towards Lestrade, who was beaming at her. "Greg, I believe the hospital caff is open. Would you like to get some coffee?"

The DI came over and took her punching hand, gently kissing the knuckles. The throbbing eased, replaced by a tingling sensation. "It would be an honor, Mrs. Peel," he said, offering Molly his arm. She took it triumphantly, and the duo swept out of the room like rumpled and stained royalty-

No. Like the Avengers, Molly thought. Which was much better.

###

Sherlock and John watched them go. "I'll be damned," the doctor said, still grinning. "Never saw that one coming."

He didn't notice the faint, approving smirk on Sherlock's bruised mouth. It had been fairly simple to arrange matters - insult Mycroft's taste in fashion while mentioning Molly's name, ensuring that Mycroft would have her followed and arrange for an appropriate gown, then persuade Lestrade to squire Molly to the ball instead while he did the real work behind the scenes. The thieves taking La Hooper hostage was unexpected, but ultimately worked out in everyone's favor (apart from the thieves, that is).

And now Molly would have a much more receptive target for her labradoodle-like affections, while Lestrade finally had a reliable sexual outlet that would do wonders for his mood. All in all, Sherlock was quite satisfied with the results of the evening.

"I did," he said smugly.

###

That evening, a chilly September rain fell outside Molly Hooper's flat, bringing with it an almost irresistible urge to stay in where it was warm and dry. Which made it that much more irritating when the smartphone on the bedside warbled its signal for an incoming text.

Molly's hand snaked out of the bedcovers, fumbling for the phone. Its screen read:

_Need liver samples from G Livingston ASAP.  
Have authorization.  
SH_

A salt-and-pepper head poked up, glancing sleepily over her shoulder. "Who is it?"

Molly smiled at the text. "No one important," she said.

And turned off the phone.


End file.
